


darling, so it goes

by MissDinahDarling



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Courting Rituals, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Romance, Insecurity, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jealousy, M/M, Marriage, Mentioned Roach (The Witcher), Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oaths & Vows, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Understanding Jaskier | Dandelion, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22699096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDinahDarling/pseuds/MissDinahDarling
Summary: here’s the thing - jaskier isusedto courting people.and though some may doubt his abilities, jaskier is well versed in the art of charming, flattering and sweettalking his way into leather breeches and silken skirts. but then along comes geralt, in very flattering leather breeches.like.obscenelyflattering.except he doesn't just want to court him, he wants tokeepthe witcher too.so, it starts with a song.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 94
Kudos: 1865
Collections: Best Geralt, The Witcher Alternate Universes





	darling, so it goes

**Author's Note:**

> tw: geralt has issues regarding consent - nothing bad or explicit occurs, but it's clear and present

here’s the thing - jaskier is _used_ to courting people.

he’s courted lovely ladies in ballrooms and handsome men in taverns. he’s dallied and flirted and wooed people of all shapes and sizes, from a range of classes and backgrounds. he’s _good_ at it too, and though _some_ may doubt his abilities, jaskier is well versed in the art of charming, flattering and sweettalking his way into leather breeches and silken skirts.

but then along comes geralt, in _very_ flattering leather breeches.

like.

_obscenely_ flattering.

and yes, at first, jaskier saw a _challenge_ \- not a conquest, not really, but someone he wanted in his life for a long, long time. someone he wanted to keep, because he saw geralt, brooding in his dark corner, and his heart _leaped_ at the opportunity.

because jaskier is used to courting people.

but not so much at keeping them - and he wants to _keep_ geralt, so one night, under the bright glow of the moon, jaskier watches geralt’s slumbering form and begins to plot and plan; roach gives her input where she can, but they both readily agree on _one_ thing. if he’s to court the butcher of blaviken, he needs to pull out all the tricks in the book, all his best moves, pour every inch of passion and devotion he has for geralt into the process.

so, it starts with a song.

* * *

“– _and i must confess/my heart’s in a mess/my body it doth quiver/for my bold, daring witcher_ ~!” jaskier trills one morning, strumming idly on his lute as he watches as geralt fishes for their breakfast. he’s knees-deep in the river, with an arm held high above his hand, his strong hand wrapped around a makeshift spear.

the man is beautifully damp, with his thin shirt clinging to his body in the most enticing way. jaskier sighs, feels his heart melt in his chest - the witcher is an exquisite creature.

“tell me, geralt,” jaskier calls out, his eyes drinking in the strong lines of the witcher’s back, “how does that sound? i’ve been torn between ‘mess’ and ‘distress’, i’m truly trying to capture the agony of unrequited–”

“it doesn’t rhyme,” geralt states, dry and distant, his body tensing up as his fingers flex around his spear. 

“what?” jaskier utters flatly, his melting heart quickly freezing in his chest, before it sinks like a stone to his stomach - how is that the man’s only comment? he’s just poured his desire and adoration into a single song, confessing his love for the man before him, and…

and all he does is quibble about his choice of rhyme?

“quiver does not rhyme with witcher,” geralt says, before he attacks the water with a single precise swing of his arm. jaskier sits up, eager and alert, as the witcher tackles with his prey, water splashing around him in a most inviting manner. the bard watches, entranced, as geralt hoists up a salmon - the fish thrashes in his tight grip and in one swift movement, the witcher ends the creature’s life.

jaskier’s not entirely certain why, but his mouth waters and his breeches grow _tight_.

“it’s a half-rhyme,” he protests, his voice strangled and weak, but honestly his song is long forgotten - roach snorts derisively from behind but he pays her little notice.

geralt returns to land, dripping and soaking with water. he looks magnificently triumphant, with one hand clutching his weapon, the other presenting his kill. the witcher stalks up to jaskier and tilts his head, amusement dancing in his softly glowing eyes.

“doesn’t count,” he says, before he gestures to their breakfast, “now, how do you like your fish?”

“hot,” jaskier utters, staring at geralt because, well. the man could probably _snap his spine in two_ right now and the bard would definitely thank him for it.

geralt stares at him, lost and confused.

“well, yes,” the witcher replies, his tone tinged with something unfamiliar, “i _am_ cooking it, so it will be hot?”

jaskier prays to every deity he doesn’t believe in for a sudden and quick death.

nearby, roach chuffs loudly - she’s clearly embarrassed on his behalf and honestly, he doesn’t blame her.

* * *

he then proceeds onwards to food - the way to a man’s heart _is_ through his stomach, after all.

so jaskier spoils geralt in tiny ways, because he knows that the brave, fearless witcher is oddly shy when it comes to generous deeds and offerings. he considers them _charity_ and snarls at the slightest notion of people giving him gifts out of pity. so jaskier has to play it safe, subtle - it’s an odd affair, because he’s normally so proud to declare his feelings for his loved ones, so used to being open and loud.

now, he must _whisper_ his love because his words clearly aren’t working and geralt _is_ a man of action, so…

so, jaskier buys him expensive ale at taverns, he ensures that his knapsack is always full of juicy fruit, fresh meat and softly baked goods.

and geralt slowly catches on.

scolds him for wasting money of nonsensical luxuries.

and jaskier’s heart _breaks_ because geralt sees these little items as luxuries. he doesn’t see them as necessities, because being a witcher has clearly warped his sense of what he _needs_ and what he must _take_.

and jaskier wants to give geralt _everything_.

but the man simply won’t take.

* * *

so, the food doesn’t work.

it doesn’t shock him, really.

* * *

he invests in extra thick fur blankets, because geralt deserves to have soft things in his life.

then his darling witcher uses the gift to distract a harpy, throwing it over the monster’s head as he dodges their attack.

the creature’s claws instantly shred the blanket to pieces.

jaskier’s heart understands how it must feel.

* * *

he tries to bestow the man with flowers - a bundle of primroses, because _he can’t live without geralt._

the man arches a brow.

and feeds the bouquet to roach.

jaskier tries to not take it too personally, because the mare certainly enjoys his gift.

at least _someone_ appreciates him.

* * *

then he fetches fine oil for geralt’s swords.

the man rolls his eyes and gestures to the three other pots of oil in his bag.

jaskier’s eyes grow wide and he wonders why the man has so much oil.

his heart _quivers_ when his sordid mind fills in the blanks for him.

* * *

it had escalated to a new level when he came across a darling little trinket in a random market stall. it had been eye-wateringly costly, but it had also been _beautiful_ and geralt _definitely_ deserved the treat.

he then wrapped it up in a soft handkerchief, made of lace and silk, and left it in geralt’s knapsack.

* * *

“what the fuck is this?” 

jaskier blinks and peers over roach’s neck - he’s taking a break from composing his latest love confession by giving the mare some affectionate pampering. he’s been brushing her coat whilst eyeing up her mane; she would look simply divine with blossoms plaited through her hair.

and then he hears geralt’s rumbling burr, which breaks him free from his idle daydreams.

his heart skips and jumps in his chest as he spies the handkerchief in the witcher’s hands. the man is surprisingly gentle as he unwraps the gift, his eyes hidden behind his fine locks of winter. jaskier’s fingers twitch nervously against roach’s neck, tangling her man between his grip as he watches with bated breath.

the witcher cocks his head, holds out his hand and straightens up with shock when his gift tumbles into his large palm. the trinket is a hair clasp with a silver wolf mounted to the front - it hadn’t looked any different to all the other pieces being sold at the stall, but _its eyes_ , oh, how they had captivated jaskier. they were two tiny stones of amber, glinting and polished and beautifully gold in colour.

how could he _not_ buy such a perfect addition for geralt’s gorgeous, albeit tragically filthy, hair?

“it’s a hair clasp,” jaskier explains, partially hiding behind roach - he’s oddly terrified of geralt’s reaction, doesn’t think his heart could take another wound, “i noticed that the ties you use aren’t strong enough, so perhaps this may do a better job of keeping all that,” he waves an airy hand at geralt’s head, “together?”

geralt arches a brow and it’s so deeply masculine and sexy, it has jaskier squirming on the spot.

“i can show you?” he offers lamely, ducking under roach’s head to approach the witcher - he moves slow, cautious, because he’s still not sure if geralt is going to throw the clasp at him or not. admittedly, it’s quite a feminine trinket, and whilst the witcher is incredibly beautiful and rather quite pretty… jaskier can’t help but think that _maybe_ he’s made a mistake?

but then geralt offers him the clasp with a tilt of his head.

“you better not pull on any tangles,” the witcher warns, and oh, how jaskier yearns to _purr_. he’s brushed geralt’s hair before, he’s tied it up and braided it, sometimes with flowers, but it always feels like such a privilege.

the witcher turns and perches on a log which sits near a blazing fire - he closes his eyes with a hum, tilts his head back and offers himself up for the bard. jaskier’s pulse is loud and his mouth is dry - he really hopes that geralt can’t _hear_ his heart pounding like a drum. 

with delicate steps, the bard pads closer to his witcher - the clasp feels heavy in his hand, the cool metal sending shivers down his spine. he attaches the trinket to the loose material of his exposed chemise and wets his lips as he sinks his fingers into geralt’s loose hair. the man looks beautiful, all the time, but there’s something utterly mesmerising about him when his hair is wild and free. 

he runs his fingers through the silky locks - his hair is admittedly dirty, but it still feels soft against jaskier’s skin. his clever, nimble digits gently untangle the knots, brushing through the wintery strands until he can easily comb through it without a single obstacle. 

throughout the process, geralt is silent, only humming when jaskier catches a stray matted knot. the flames flicker across his face, lighting up his bone structure in the most alluring way and jaskier wishes his witcher would open his eyes - the golden shade looks gorgeous when lit up by fire; it’s incredibly beautiful to see geralt’s gaze, gleaming against the soft glow of burning embers.

jaskier bites his lip, swallows down the urge to duck down and brush his lips against geralt’s forehead, his nose, his cheeks and lips - instead, he gathers geralt’s hair together in a loose ponytail, his heart quivering rapidly in his chest, and he gently closes the clasp around the bundle of hair.

the wolf looks perfect, nestled amongst the white thatch of hair - the gems are bright and wonderful, and jaskier congratulates himself on having such exquisite taste. he runs his hand through the silken strands one last time before he reluctantly tears himself away from touching the man before him. oh, how can a man look so stony, yet have a heart so sweet?

“all done,” he declares quietly, willing his heart to calm and still, as geralt glances at him over his shoulder, reaching up to check his hair. the witcher seems to approve, as he hums lightly and nods at the bard.

“thank you,” he murmurs, gazing up at jaskier with an unreadable expression. his eyes are soft, glimmering and the bard can feel himself falling deeper into the colour - falling deeper in love.

“you need a bath,” he says, because a confession is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows it’s still too soon for his witcher to hear such words, so. 

so he panics.

and geralt’s soft expression melts into a hard frown.

and roach snorts, like a scoff, because jaskier is fucking _useless_.

* * *

it all ends at party.

because, _of course it does_.

* * *

here’s the thing - geralt doesn’t _court_ people.

he’s never needed to, because witchers don’t require such affections. they don’t need it and shouldn’t desire it, because courting leads to love and affection and families, domesticity, _a quiet life_ \- and witchers aren’t permitted such luxuries in life. it’s why they’re–

well.

it’s why they must buy the soft touch of company.

why they need to exchange coin for sweet words.

and then along comes jaskier, who wears his emotions as openly as his lace underclothes. who bats his big blue eyes with shining adoration and whose scent drowns and overwhelms, encapsulates and blankets - because it’s so thick with love and desire, and geralt wonders if he should say something, but jaskier seems content with just his company, so he wisely keeps his thoughts to himself.

and then the gifts start showing up.

and geralt isn’t stupid - he’s been trained to notice strange occurrences and odd appearances, but he doesn’t really understand _why_ they’re appearing. because jaskier doesn’t say anything - he just chirps like a songbird and dances like a fox, dodging and slipping around geralt’s curiosity like a snake.

so. geralt remains silent, takes the gifts in his stride, although he admonishes the bard for wasting money on expensive food and drink, because their purse is light this season and it won’t be getting any heavier should jaskier be so spendthrift. he does feel oddly guilty about the wasted furs and the flowers had left him… feeling unnerved. awkward.

_flustered_.

so he had given them to roach and tried hard to ignore the wounded spark in jaskier’s clear eyes.

then.

he received the wolf clasp - it had his heart pounding fiercely in his chest, though the sound had been drowned out by jaskier’s fluttering pulse. it soothes him, somewhat, that the bard feels as anxious, as nervous, as _on edge,_ as he does about this whole unspoken affair. he had almost fallen asleep to the feeling on the bard grooming and brushing his hair - the touch had been reverent, loving, and geralt had–

he had never–

felt so–

_cherished_ , before.

and despite jaskier utterly ruining the oddly quaint moment, geralt feels his heart soften, his resolve weaken. he finds himself looking forward to waking up so he can taste the excitement of jaskier’s scent on his tongue, eager for the day ahead of them; he appreciates the songbird’s tunes in a new way, as the music leaves him feeling lighter and less burdened. jaskier is kind to roach, is friendly to children and just radiates an aura of open loving energy.

and yet.

it still befuddles him, how jaskier refuses to speak about his blatant lust, his obvious love. but geralt isn’t going to force the bard to confront his desires if he isn’t ready. so he waits and indulges the little lark in his odd behaviours.

he probably indulges _too_ much.

because sweet jaskier, with his adoring eyes and loving scent, begs and pleads for geralt to attend a party with him… and the witcher is _weak_ and gives in far too easily for his pride to handle. it’s for some lord of such-and-such, and jaskier _has_ to attend because he _needs_ to retrieve some token he left with the daughter of a nobleman he had been tangled up with a few months ago. she’s attending, apparently _with_ the token, and so they _have_ to attend too.

he’s horrifically bossy and pushy when he wants to get his own way.

it works though, because now they’re attending a party.

* * *

“he’s good at what he does, isn’t he?” says a nobleman.

it’s been three hours and geralt still isn’t drunk enough to deal with the pomp and snobbery. he’s half-hidden behind a pillar, ale in hand, trying hard to not stand out. luckily, there is no one here who wishes to out him like mousesack, so he sinks into anonymity and savours it for as long as he can.

then a bold nobleman approaches him.

and now he’s speaking to him.

geralt closes his eyes, sighs and quells his urge to abscond and leave jaskier behind.

“what are you talking about?” he asks, half-regretting encouraging the conversation, half-hoping that the quicker the man speaks, the quicker he leaves.

“the bard,” the nobleman says, before nodding towards jaskier. geralt’s songbird is surrounded by ladies, although his attention is focused on one - she’s dressed in the palest blue, but around her neck is a pink ribbon with a single pearl hanging from it. jaskier gestures to it eagerly and geralt supposes the choker is the token the bard wishes to retrieve. the lady looks unimpressed, but she’s not slapping jaskier, so it must be going well, “he’s clever at courting those weak fools into his bed.”

geralt hums, already bored with such inane gossip.

“that’s the daughter of a dear friend of mine,” the nobleman continues, sloshing wine against his mouth as he leans into geralt’s personal space, “that trickster bastard had wined and dined her, bought her flowers and expensive confections - thought he could impress her with trinkets like that necklace around her neck.”

the clasp in geralt’s hair suddenly feels _heavy_ and _cold_.

“the bard had spent months wooing her, only to abandon her once he managed to snatch the pearl from her oyster,” the nobleman crudely grins, but geralt is no longer listening, because now the past few weeks are tainted with insecurity and suspicion.

his gifts no longer seem innocent.

everything just seems.

sordid.

lewd.

_wrong_.

“guess he’s trying to get that memento back,” the nobleman finishes, his attention already straying when a young maid passes them by - his scent spikes with a sickening bitter musk; it makes geralt _gag_ , “guess he has a new set of legs to pry open.”

and then he’s gone.

and geralt has never felt so… _uncomfortable_ in his skin.

is he… is this why–

does jaskier simply want–

and why does he want to strip his skin off–

he thought jaskier–

but he was _wrong_.

and geralt is very rarely wrong, so when it happens, it leaves his nerves feeling raw, his skin crawls and his gut lurches violently. he’s never felt so– _wrong_ before. why, why does he feel so wrong?

“what a sight you make, my darling witcher,” his– the little lark lilts, appearing before geralt without a warning, “skulking around in the dark, almost makes me nostalgic for our first meeting!”

geralt hums.

jaskier’s fingers twitch nervously.

his scent is still sweet though, so soft and sweet.

why.

why, why, _why_?

“geralt,” jaskier breathes, his eyes bright and eager - geralt’s heart _hurts_ and he’s not fucking sure _why_ , but he merely tilts his head and silently invites the bard to continue, “you know you’re dear to me, right?” and then– and then the bard pulls out the choker, having clearly and successfully retrieved it from his past lover, “and i know jewellery isn’t your thing, but this had belonged to my mother and– and maybe you can tie it around your sword? because that throat is gorgeous, but i highly doubt this flimsy thing will tie around such an impressive– ah. i mean. will you take it?”

and geralt understands completely.

for the bard sees him as another conquest, another challenge, another body to experience, before he leaves to find another who can warm his nights with pleasure and bliss.

and normally, geralt would be furious, because he is not a whore to be bought.

and yet.

and yet he doesn’t wish to lose jaskier, he can’t lose the bard and if– if he can have the lovely lark in his bed, if he proves himself a worthy lover– maybe the bard will stay?

maybe.

he’ll get to keep him?

the wrongness crawls into his skin, seeps into his veins and webs out across his body, like a venomous snake, poisoning all it touches. but jaskier’s eyes are doting and his smile is sweet and geralt can’t imagine not having him in his life.

so he takes the token, brings it to his lips and kisses it sweetly, before he flicks a heated gaze over the ribbon. he watches as jaskier wets his lips, as the bard’s eyes darken and grow wide and shocked. the sweet scent turns spicy and geralt steels his resolve.

vows to do everything he can to keep this creature in his life.

“think a castle this big has an empty bed hidden somewhere?” he asks, his voice a deep burr to hide how much his mind is spiralling. jaskier’s mouth gapes, his face flushes and his fingers twitch nervously by his side. his spiced scent drops and so does geralt’s stomach as his nose takes in the air of concern which clouds jaskier’s body. it’s honestly so confusing, everything is so confusing, but geralt feels like he’s on the precipice of losing his lark, so–

“are you,” the bard pauses, furrowing his brows, “is everything okay, geralt?”

“it will be,” geralt replies, because he truly thinks it will.

–so he takes jaskier’s hand and tugs him away from the party.

* * *

they find an empty room, lit by stars and moonlight.

it’s big and cold, but the bed is large enough for them both as they tumble and crash atop the neatly fitted sheets, their lips are fused together with passion and heat. tongues tangle and teeth nip and bite - jaskier is eager and ardent, pressing himself up against geralt’s body with purring moans and crooning sighs. geralt isn’t used to such enthusiasm - the ladies in the brothels are slow, stiff and always have an air of hesitation around them.

jaskier, however?

the little bard thrusts himself into geralt’s arms, looping his arms and legs around the witcher’s body, clinging tightly with his nails biting into toughened skin. he’s skilled, sure, but it’s his _passion_ which threatens to _drown_ geralt - it clouds his mind and _burns_ his skin. it feels like salvation and damnation and geralt–

and geralt… he tries to _keep up_.

he tries to _ignore_ his screaming instincts.

he tries.

he fucking tries.

“geralt,” jaskier murmurs, because geralt’s hands are pawing at his breeches, at his doublet, “geralt, darling?” but geralt doesn’t answer, because he’s so focused on using his death-tainted hands to bring bliss to the bard’s body, “fuck, geralt - calm down, darling, _stop_!”

and the sudden shocking spike of sour scent churns through the air.

geralt recoils away from jaskier, his eyes wide and his nostrils flared. his blood turns to ice in his veins, piercing his heart like shards of glass. the bard’s fright is pungent and stings the witcher’s nostrils, burns his throat and scorches its way into his gut. it settles there and churns around, building into a tempest of nausea and–

“–hey handsome,” jaskier says, petting at geralt’s face with wide-eyed worry, “speak to me - are you okay?”

“i’m fine,” geralt utters, distant as he swallows down his rising horror, “come, let us not spoil the mood.”

jaskier ducks his hands however, leaning away from the witcher with a frown. “i can tell when someone isn’t… _comfortable_ , in my bed. my lovers need to be excited and eager, i don’t want someone who is hesitant and lacks the desire to be with me. i don’t find it enjoyable when my partner _forces_ themselves to–”

“i want this,” geralt interrupts, “don’t you?”

“do you?” jaskier throws back, his scent twisting in the air - it tastes like rotting fruit, a testament to how distressed and heartbroken the bard feels, “fuck, geralt, do you?”

geralt pauses, deflates and sighs as he settles back against the bed.

jaskier releases a mournful wail.

“why?” he breathes wetly, “why would you do that to yourself?”

geralt closes his eyes - it’s easier to be honest when he can’t see the cause of his inner turmoil. the storm still rages in his stomach and he doesn’t know how to calm the tides.

“you wanted me in your bed,” geralt says with a shrug, his words ringing hollowly in the empty room, “and i wanted to prove that i was better.”

“better than who?” jaskier whispers, his tone torn and thin.

“better than the rest,” geralt murmurs, opening his eyes to gaze at the dark ceiling, “better than the lady you came for. i wanted to show you that you could stay with me, that your gifts weren’t in vain and that if i proved a good enough lover, you wouldn’t leave me like you left her.”

“that lady? darling, i never left her - i _loved_ her. i loved her enough to gift her a keepsake from my mother. and she _took_ it and abandoned me. returned to her fiancé and besmirched my good name,” jaskier explains with a bitter huff, and his words ring honest and true in geralt’s ears, “and when i caught wind of a woman attending the party with a rather fetching pink pearl choker, i knew that i had to take it back–” he pauses, gazes at geralt with soft eyes, “–and give it to someone who was _worthy_.”

his scent is no longer sour.

is no longer twisted.

it’s sweet.

it’s pure.

it’s blissfully _hopeful_ and full of–

it’s full off–

“you,” geralt murmurs, delicate and fragile, “you _love_ me?”

“i’ve always loved you,” jaskier confirms, with a melancholic smile dancing on his lips, “i adore you and i– i’m sorry you thought i merely wanted to _use_ you. i’m mortified that you caught onto my actions, but i swear, my gifts? they truly were a sign of my affection, i _promise_. darling, i would never and shall never take advantage of you in such a dishonourable manner - and i would never discard of you afterwards.”

geralt blinks.

scoffs.

“ _julian_ ,” he says, heavy and thick, “you could never take advantage of me.”

jaskier merely arches a brow and gestures pointedly between them, shifting on the bed so he fully demonstrate his point - despite saying little, his expression speaks volumes.

“point taken,” geralt sighs, before he shifts too, until he’s settled on his knees opposite the bard - he reaches across the space between them and holds jaskier’s hands in his, threading their fingers loosely together, “if we’re exchanging vows, then may i make one of my own?”

jaskier gasps, clutches tightly onto geralt’s hands with a bright smile on his face.

“and to think,” he trills delightedly, “my father thought i’d _never_ marry!”

geralt merely sighs and barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

“julian, my lark,” he rumbles, stroking his thumbs across the delicate knuckles, “i promise to keep you - i won’t discard you come the morning, you’re not here to simply warm my bed. i want you; i have very little in life that i get to selfishly keep, and i want–”

he doesn’t finish, because jaskier’s eyes grow wet and the bard emits a weak noise from deep in his throat, and then–

then he’s shrieking as he throws himself at geralt.

kissing his lips and swallowing his promise. it feels warmer, sweeter than the kisses they had exchanged earlier - geralt sinks into the bard’s loving lips and finds comfort and peace in jaskier’s honey-sweet taste. he hums and closes his eyes, and jaskier’s earlier jest comes floating back to the forefront of his memories.

it’s funny.

geralt never thought he’d ever marry either.

and yet - here they are.


End file.
